


Dirty Laundry

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-06-01
Updated: 2002-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-20 13:31:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11336493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Everyone loves dirty laundry . well, except maybe the neighbors .





	Dirty Laundry

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Dirty Laundry

## Dirty Laundry

#### by Mik

Date: Wednesday, October 03, 2001 2:04 AM 

TITLE: Dirty Laundry  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
**CATEGORY: M/K**  
RATING: NC-17. M/K. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind.  
SUMMARY: Everyone loves dirty laundry ... well, except maybe the neighbors ...  
ARCHIVE: Only with my permission.  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ... TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current.   
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Krycek Mulder NC-17 DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Alex Krycek, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything. However, when I become king ...  
If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog. 

* * *

Dirty Laundry  
by Mik 

The hum of the washing machine was a soothing sort of sound, a nice little white noise to block out all the other sounds of a Saturday morning in my apartment building; the garbage collectors playing rugby with the dumpsters, the couple in 32 having their weekly argument over money/his drinking/her flirting, the moan of the antiquated pipes trying to provide hot water to every apartment in the building at once. But it didn't seem to work on the sounds going on in my head. And there are several. The sound of his moaning. The sound of my grunting. The sound of the bed groaning under our weight. The sound of harsh, ragged breathing. The sound of me commanding him to come. The sound of him telling me he loved me. 

Oh, why won't that sound go away? I leaned back against the rumbling washer, arms across my chest, willing myself to hear that couple's familiar refrains rather than his breathless, half laughed confession. My brain was in a spin cycle all morning over those words. It was bad enough I butt fucked a man. Bad enough that man was my mortal enemy. Even worse that, given the opportunity, I'd do it again, with relish, mustard and onions. But the worst thing of all was hearing that man, that fuck drunk mortal enemy tell me he loved me. 

Well, of course it's a lie, I reminded myself, turning around to check the process of the machine. When has he ever told me the truth, about anything? But why that lie? That's what I don't understand. What's the point of exposing himself like that? Truth or not, that left him in a very vulnerable position. What if I took him seriously? What if I wanted him to love me? Oh, no ... no more love. Love makes me do ... if you pardon the expression ... queer things. Love drains me of every rational thought and leaves me floating on a cloud of sappy feeling, hope for the future and dangerously close to bursting into a rousing, if slightly off key chorus of `The sun'll come out toMORrow ...' 

I caught myself whistling and choked the sound off with a decided purse of my lips. I could still taste him on my mouth. The vodka stained kisses, the passion soaked skin. I'm not in love with him, I told myself, already feeling a rush to the south of my belt buckle. Okay ... so why am I doing his laundry at ten o'clock on a Saturday morning? What made me sneak out of bed and race around tidying up, loading a week's worth of dishes into the machine, dumping the contents of his discarded jeans on the floor (I'll be damned, he did have lube in his pockets) and grabbing his sweaty tee shirt to wash them before he woke? I shouldn't care if he had to leave my apartment smelling like a cheap whore after the fleet came in. Yet I distinctly recall leaving fresh towels and a new bar of soap on the counter next to the sink before I came down to the basement. 

The only thing that made that sound go away was the memory of shoving my dick straight up his ass. That's not a very dainty way of thinking about one's first congress with one's lover but a) there was nothing dainty about last night and b) he's not my lover. Okay ... technically, he might be considered a lover. Given that love was expressed at some point. And given that I wouldn't mind having him again. And given that the idea of having a lover had some appeal as I stood, staring into the washing machine after a fit of domesticity such as my apartment has never seen. Some appeal? If I could figure out a way to tie him to the bed, I'd have a lover for life. 

Tying. That made me sigh. Because, in truth, that's what it would take. Not that it wouldn't have its merits on the kinky scale, but ... 

"Planning to hold me captive indefinitely, Mulder?" 

I turned around with a jerk. I didn't even hear the door open, and there he was, touseled, hair glistening from his recent shower, wrapped in my bathrobe, and echoing my thoughts with eerie accuracy. I shrugged, trying not to cover myself, despite my very obvious erection. "Only for a couple of weeks. After that, you'd get boring." 

I was surprised that remark seemed to actually sting. "Yeah," he said, matching my shrug. "I suppose so." 

"Hey, I didn't mean ..." I stopped, fumbling. I'm not sure what I didn't mean. I fussed with a stack of towels folded on the table between us. "It was only a joke," I said lamely, suddenly fourteen with a newfound crush. "A dumb one." 

He didn't seem to know where to look. I think for a moment his eyes had fixed on my crotch, but he couldn't quite make himself look at my eyes. "I made coffee," he said quietly. "Was that all right?" 

"Oh, yeah. Fine." I looked at the towel clenched in my fingers. "About last night ... was it ... okay with you?" 

He snickered. "Fox Mulder has performance anxiety?" 

"No, we know I didn't have performance anxiety," I retorted. "I was just wondering if it was too ... weird for you." 

"Too weird?" One jet brow arched up. "Too weird to have sex with someone I've wanted for five years?" 

I stared at him. "You're shitting me," I said for want of anything more romantic to say. 

He smiled. "Well, I might be if you hadn't used a condom." His face reddened slightly. "No, I've wanted to sleep with you ever since we were ..." he paused, his glance flickered away from me. "Ever since I was assigned to you." 

"Even after all the times I've beaten you up, shot at you, cursed you ..." 

He nodded. "How sick is that, Doc?" 

"Pretty sick," I agreed, feeling decidedly ... well, queer. To fight the urge to rush out and register china and buy silk sheets, I turned around and fussed with the dials on the machine. "This is really a lousy washer," I said in a husky voice. "It takes such a long time." 

I felt him move behind me, his -- my robe falling open so that his shower-warmed, naked body was pressed against me, his growing erection rubbing against my ass. "How long?" he whispered, and nipped at the back of my neck. 

"Not that long." I caught his wrists at my waist. "Easy, comrade, you're pulling into the wrong dock. That bay's closed to receiving." Still, I couldn't deny that my cock was getting harder every minute, it was getting very hot in that room and he smelled like my soap and desire. I turned in his embrace, leaving his wrists locked in my hands so that as I turned, his arms were crossed almost hurtfully at his waist. I sent a hot, searching look over his face, and fixed on his mouth, parted in surprise and a little pain. I kissed him deeply. 

He moaned into my mouth, rubbing himself against me unabashedly, a little Russian wolfhound in heat. His eyes were shut tight and his fingers clenched and unclenched under mine. 

In another minute I had him turned and bent over the table, face down in a pile of mountain spring fresh sheets, his cock jammed into a stack of tee shirts. I pushed the robe up over his back impatiently, and used one foot to push his bare feet apart, so that he was almost straddling the corner of the metal table. "Is this what you wanted?" I asked him, biting the back of his neck, not so playfully. 

He was absolutely still in my arms. He didn't struggle, he didn't utter a single protest. The only thing he did was dip a hand into the pocket of my robe and toss a packet of KY on the table. 

Holding him jammed against the table with my thighs, I grabbed the lubricant and tore it open with my fingers. I was feeling mean, and rough and possessive and ... and angry. Angry that I'd once again been seduced by him, that he had the power to make me lose all reason, that here I was, in the laundry room of my building getting ready to do something weirder and far more dangerous than chase aliens or seek out government conspiracies. 

I slid my slick fingers down between his tight brown cheeks and pushed. Even though he was still a little open after last night, he grunted as I pushed two fingers inside. "Is this what you want?" I demanded on a hiss. 

I saw his head bounce against the sheets in a nod, heard a muffled, "Yessssssss." 

With my other hand I fumbled with the buttons of my jeans and shoved them down enough to free my cock, already red and leaking, and worked it in between his cheeks. Then I slid my hands up his back, under my robe, and grasped his shoulders for leverage. I didn't have to push so hard this time. His body yielded to me easily, and I slid in deep quickly. So quickly that I wasn't prepared for the heat, or for the reflexive spasms of his sphincter as he adjusted to me. It caught me off guard and I nearly yelped in a pleasure so intense and unexpected it was almost painful. "Oh, shit, Alex." 

He arched his back and rocked his hips, trying to take me deeper. "Yeah," he answered with a pant. 

I gave his hip a little slap. "You talk too much," I told him and began to pump. 

I admit that I wanted to hurt him, wanted to make him pay for doing this to me, for making me want the most forbidden thing of all ... him. But something changed as I drove into him. Me. I began to notice the smooth strength of his shoulders under my fingers, and the silky power of his legs against my thighs. I saw blue-black highlights in his shiny hair, and a soft curve to his jaw. I smelled clean flesh, and sweet breath, and a scent that was uniquely his. I felt his body responding eagerly to mine. I heard him whispering my name. 

I think that's when I stopped fucking him. 

My hands slid down his toned body and slipped around his middle and I leaned over him, cradling him against me as I pulled out and slid in, trying to remember what it was that was all the rage in gay porn and teen movies ... oh, yeah ... the blessed prostate. I began to poke around with each thrust, trying -- hoping to find it. 

I began to kiss him. His neck, his shoulder, his hair. I think I began to whisper to him, although I didn't know then and still don't know what I said. But I know that he stopped being a hole to fill, an enemy to punish, and became someone I wanted to pleasure. My fingers shifted between us to stroke his belly and his cock and I felt him twitch and moan beneath me. My thrusts became less and less violent, and I found that, in taking time for him, I was feeling more of his body, the velvet walls, the clenching, caressing muscles. He became the most delicious masturbation I have ever known. 

In one of my exploratory plunges I got lucky and found that little paradise gland and the reaction from him was immediate and intense. He jerked up, rigid, under me, ass wriggling, legs thrashing, a raw keen of pleasure ripped from his throat. He bore down on me, grasping my cock in a grip I could only describe as ... well ... fucking brilliant. I saw stars. Again. 

I held him still for a moment, soothing him `til he relaxed against the pile of laundry, and then started again, sliding in and out slowly and deliberately. I wanted to make it good for him. Suddenly I needed to please him more than myself. "That's it, baby," I heard myself crooning, my fingers brushing over his taut belly as I moved in him. "That's it." 

He kept pushing his hips back to meet me as I pumped him. "Please," he begged. "Please." 

"Shhhh." I shifted inside him, trying to find that place again. And when I did there were comets and rockets and the Backstreet Boys. I felt my balls draw up. I felt the blood race to the head of my cock. I felt... 

"Shit!" I stilled inside him, falling against him, gasping. 

He continued to rock against me. "What?" He wriggled. "What?" 

"No condom," I groaned. 

He pushed back again. "I don't care. Just ... shit ... just ... do it." 

Well, that was all I needed to be stupid. I held on tight and began to thrust, hard. I stopped caring about his pleasure, about the neighbors, about the risks of unprotected sex. The only thing that mattered was coming, leaving myself inside him, marking him always as mine. My Krycek. My lover. My ... "oh... shit ... Alex." 

I rode him hard, dragging his cock against the fabric of the tee shirts, banging away at his prostate as I came. 

I felt him tighten around me, thrusting against the table and back against me, making small whimpering sounds, his fingers clutching at clothing on the table and sending towels and underwear flying everywhere as he came. "Yes, Fox, now. NOW!" 

When I came to my senses, my cock echoing my pounding heart as it throbbed inside him, I leaned over him, kissing his cheek, surprised to find a tear at the corner of his eye. "Good," I murmured into his ear. 

"You talk too much," he answered with a sigh. And then a laugh. Soft and deep. I could feel it around me, inside him. 

I had to laugh with him, and tightened my arms around him. I don't know what happened. We certainly hadn't had a long, rational conversation about our differences. We'd declared no truce, we'd made no rules, promises or vows. I'd hate to think I was so shallow that sex could completely rearrange my values and beliefs and needs, but at that moment I loved him, wanted him with me forever, absolved him of all guilt, forgave him. 

A moment later I felt him squirm and I backed off of his body, slipped out of him. 

He moved off the table on wobbly legs, reminding me a bit of a colt, and fumbled with his one hand to wipe his belly and then his bum with the tee shirt he had come so copiously in. 

I reached for the shirt and knelt, wiping him up almost tenderly. "Good?" I asked again. 

His fingers slid into my hair. "Good," he answered. 

I looked up at him. He was smiling at me. I felt my heart flip over. "Good," I echoed, huskily. 

"Let's go back to bed," he urged softly. 

"I can't," I said regretfully. I looked down at the tee shirt in my hands. 

"Why?" There was an edge to his voice. "Now that you've got your rocks off, you don't --" 

"I have to redo all this laundry," I answered, cutting him off. 

"Oh, fuck the laundry," he said impatiently. 

I looked at the tee shirt again. "Too late." 

He giggled. My God, Alex Krycek giggles and it's adorable. "Come on, we can do it later. I'll help. I promise." 

I shook my head sadly. "I really need to do it now." 

"Why?" 

I started scooping clothes together and held up a bra. "It's not my laundry." 

  * END - 



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